


Animal Impulses

by purpjools



Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [3]
Category: Hazbin Hotel (Web Series), Helluva Boss (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Come Eating, Creampie, Crossdressing, F/F, Fluff and Smut, Gratuitous Smut, Human Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Human Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Humiliation kink, Lapdance, Lapdance Devolution, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Sex Positive Alastor (Hazbin Hotel), Smoking, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Unsafe Sex, Voyeurism, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-23 13:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpjools/pseuds/purpjools
Summary: Alastor decides to pay his roommate a visit to his place of employ. It's more of a hassle than it seems. There's a fair stream of strangers he needs to navigate past, for starters.Then there's the complicated issue of Angel Dust.Whatever the night holds, it's bound to be very entertaining.Or: Alastor visits a strip club and gets his money's worth.Alternatively: "No sex in the Champagne Room" is more of aguideline, really.
Relationships: Alastor/Angel Dust (Hazbin Hotel), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Human Hazbin Roommates AU [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699558
Comments: 25
Kudos: 327





	1. Bloodletting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Obligatory “this was supposed to be a short one-shot and it exploded” note)
> 
> Back again with the gratuitous porn.
> 
> Absolutely no one asked for this (a more roommates-centric one shot is planned after this behemoth for those that did, also quite porny), but here it is anyways.
> 
> Also, Happy Easter. You guys are great.

Angel sighs, swirling his responsible, decidedly _virgin_ drink in his hand.

The night is boring for a Friday. It’s between paydays, so he wasn’t expecting much. _Still_. Earlier, he’d tried vainly to cajole his regulars into coming, texting them in between sets, but it was mostly for naught. The best he received were lewd solicitations, and he wasn’t about to do _that_.

Not anymore.

The thought sobers him, somewhat.

As best as it could for someone who’d been served the equivalent of glorified water, anyway.

“Stop fucking pouting already! Jesus, I can hear your bitching from here!”

Angel ducks as a rag grazes his face, narrowly missing it by millimeters. He scowls, baring his teeth at the offender.

“What fuckin’ crawled up your ass and died?”

“You,” Vaggie deadpans.

“Oh, you wish! Sorry toots, barkin’ up the wrong tree.”

Snatching his glass, he pointedly turns his back to her and peers out at the sea of bodies.

Or rather, lack thereof.

Angel’s bored, and boredom makes him downright surly. His favorite person to egg on in this entire shit place is Vaggie, by a long mile. He blames it on that hot temper of hers. His wiseass comments never fail to elicit a reaction, especially when she’s wound up tight.

“Who do I gotta blow to get a decent drink around here?” He calls over his shoulder. “Hopefully a better bartender. Someone way hotter an’ packin’.”

The quip earns him a rag to the back of the head.

“Hey!” he snaps, swivelling back around. “The fuck’s the matter with you? What is it, shark week or somethin’?”

It’s her turn to bare teeth. She opens her mouth to retort, when her attention suddenly refocuses to something beyond Angel’s shoulder. She hurriedly adjusts her eyepatch, pats down her outfit, and smiles. It’s a pretty, crooked thing, and at once Angel knows who it’s for.

“Hiya Chuck.”

“Hey babe.”

They greet Charlie at the same time. She lays her hand on his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Hey Angel.”

He hears her other murmur of “hey baby” before Charlie leans over the counter to pin a quick kiss to her girlfriend’s lips. Vaggie laughs, then moves from behind the bar to embrace her fully. Charlie squeals with delight as her toes leave the ground.

“Gay,” Angel calls from his stool.

Vaggie fixes him with a glare, although it’s with considerably less rancour than before.

“Your jealous is showing, dick.” And to further rub salt in the wound, “Where’s that guy you’ve been going on about? He here, or he chicken out?”

“He ain’t pussy out.” A pause.

“I dunno if he’s still coming,” he admits. He swirls his pathetic, non-alcoholic drink, watching the syrup float in threads. He barely manages not to sigh.

“Ain’t exactly his scene, ya know?”

From the corner of his eye, he sees Charlie extricate herself from her girlfriend’s arms. A soft hand lands on his forearm, and an even softer voice says, “And that’s okay, Angel. Nobody’s ever really ready to date a dancer. Trust me. I’ve seen it all. Daddy could tell you stories.”

“It’s not…it’s not that,” he stammers, unused to this type of gesture. Kindness, his mind unhelpfully supplies. He’s not used to _kindness._

He blinks once to wipe away the disquieting thought. He swallows, and tries again.

“Al’s fuckin’ out there, Chuck. Can’t get a read on that guy half the time. Fella’s so straight-laced, or so he looks, until he’s not and pinning me with his dick so far up my ass it hits my throat, ya know?” Angel rolls his eyes at Vaggie’s ensuing gag, and continues, “Shit, until recently, I didn’t think he’d piss on me if I was on fire.”

Charlie, for her part, looks appropriately shell-shocked. “Er…wow. Sounds like a keeper.”

Angel swoons, resting his chin on his hand. A languorous smile spreads across his face.

“Don’t he?”

* * *

A bored looking girl regards him from her position behind the wooden stand. She has a book propped in her lap, its pages gently buffeted by the warm night breeze. She takes turns between flipping the pages and smoking her cigarette, which she places, cherry still lit, in one of the many grooves lining the ashtray.

“You gonna stand there all night or what?”

“I’m ambivalent,” Alastor honestly answers.

If having second thoughts were a sport, he’d be dominating every game right about now. He sighs. He’s never pivoted so much on a single issue, being someone who prides himself in picking a side and then seeing it all the way through. Alastor is normally a man who doesn’t waver in his convictions, who doesn’t question himself after making up his mind.

So naturally, he feels a right fool hemming and hawing over entering a damned building.

Angel’s place of work, he corrects himself. A strip bar.

It’s not like Alastor hadn’t ever been to one; in university, he’d been coerced and dragged against his will to a couple of the ones on Bourbon. He’d always found himself mindlessly bored at the sybaritic nonsense these places exuded. More often than not, he ended up nursing a weak drink, as drinks were typically included in the exorbitant ticket price, while fending off advances from the bolder women. After enough of that, his friends ceased all strip club invitations and took great care in inviting him out to decidedly more appropriate venues. They had, as a result of his behaviour, assumed incorrectly that Alastor was homosexual, which made for a very entertaining and unbearably long weekend at Pride, where they heroically attempted to shove him at every available male deemed attractive by their strange, straight standards. Alastor had never been to so many gay venues in his entire life, and after that debacle, if he were to never set foot in another club, gay or otherwise, he’d die a happy man.

It would seem he spoke too soon.

It’s also not like Alastor hadn’t given his sexuality more than a cursory glance. He did, and made peace with the fact that, on the rare off-chance he finds himself attracted to someone, biological sex (or sexes) matters not a lick.

It is rare enough as it is, and in the end, he just let sleeping dogs lie. Partners questioned him over the years, and he politely begged off, preferring to distract them in other, more carnal ways. That, at least, he’s insanely skilled at.

He doesn’t mind tooting his own horn; the required skills take finesse and scores of practice. The main things, above all, are the ability to decipher body language and act accordingly, and confidence, both of which Alastor has in spades.

And when he fixates on someone, well, he’s _insatiable_.

He breathes in deep, then exhales before approaching the stand. The girl peers up at him and sighs. She flicks the ash off her cigarette, tapping the butt.

“Finally. What the hell can I do you for?”

He pulls out his wallet. “How much?”

She scratches her nose with the same hand. The lit end dangles dangerously close to her fringe, but she seems unperturbed. “That depends. Cover’s thirty, unless one of the girls put you on the list. Anyone waiting on you tonight?”

Her tone drips with scepticism as she observes him through a lens: his ironed shirt, designer belt buckle, tidy trousers, and shined shoes. Alastor doesn’t know whether to be amused or offended, but he rarely choses the latter, and this time is no different. Even he certainly didn’t think he matched the stereotypical visage of someone involved with a stripper.

Stranger things have happened, he supposes.

“I’m here to see Angel Dust,” he says. “The name’s Alastor.”

Her eyes widen fractionally and her jaw slackens.

“Oh shit! You’re the guy! Hot damn, I never thought you’d show, thought he was fucking with me. Man, you really did a number on his neck.” She frowns. “Aw, damnit, there goes my twenty. Fucking Cherri. Goddamn collusion, I tell ya.”

Alastor patiently waits for her to finish her tirade. She takes another drag of her cigarette, then jerks a thumb at the door.

“Straight ahead, asshole.”

As he ducks under the red curtains, he hears her call out.

“Hey, when you run into Cherri, tell her Loona’s got her money, but I ain’t giving her shit if she’s going to be a bitch about it.”

He holds up a hand in response. “Will do.”

And walks inside.

* * *

The first thing that hits him is the smoke. The whole place reeks of it. Alastor wrinkles his nose at the suffocating odor. He blinks his eyes, then adjusts his glasses in a fruitless gesture. No such luck.

He’ll just have to make do.

He moves on, the faint booming of bass steadily rising in volume. He passes a door left ajar to his right, and catches snippets of conversation.

“He like act smart, so I wen kick his _boto_.”

“Girl, you so punchy. Crack me up, you.”

He keeps a meandering pace, glancing around at the surroundings and subconsciously cataloguing every detail, from the light fixtures bolted to the wall to the various reflective surfaces littered about, including the mirror that comprised the whole of the ceiling. His eyes catch the presence of black globes scattered about, embedded in inconspicuous corners.

Cameras.

Alastor is no fool. This place is owned and operated by the infamous businessman, Lucifer Magne, and managed by all his little cronies. The man is clever, conniving, and inexorably ruthless. It’s a poorly kept secret that he holds connections to the mob, and is even rumoured to be one of its head kingpins. The club operates as a legitimate front for Magne’s true aspirations. It’s a thin guise, but nothing has ever been proven. Alastor knows this, and steers well clear of the man. Lucifer, for his part, prudently avoids Alastor in turn. They both benefit as a result.

After all, Alastor is no stranger to the nefarious plots and schemes of the underworld.

Urgently, however, he’s acutely aware that he’s venturing into the lion’s den. He’d waited until the man left town, but knows it’s only a matter of time until he gets wind of this visit. He has more than enough to indict Magne, tilting the scales slightly in his favor, but alas. Counting chickens, and all that.

The double doors before him fly open, and he’s greeted by a blast of loud music and icy air. A girl clutches her companion’s arm, wobbling like a lame giraffe on impractically high heels. The pair sways unsteadily, clinging to one another.

“Oh, Daddy,” she crows, “We gonna have some fun tonight!”

The much larger, older man simpers, cow-eyed and stupid with drink. He tips his considerable bulk towards Alastor, who sidesteps, swiftly. Years of living with Husk sharpened his reflexes around drunks.

“Hey, you! Boy! Which way’s the Champagne Room?” he slurs. “I’m taking this train all the way!”

Alastor sneers before a cool voice interrupts him. The swinging doors shield the body, but she steps out soon enough.

“No sex in the Champagne Room,” the girl chides, hissing at the man before settling squarely on the other girl. “You fuckin’ know that, Velvet.”

“Velvet” appears to sober up quickly.

“Yeah, girl, I got it,” she mumbles, shuffling away. The man squawks, but waddles along after her.

“Hello, Cherri,” Alastor greets, taking an educated guess, “Alastor. Pleasure’s all mine. _Quite_ a pleasure.”

She grins toothily like she caught the canary.

“Ho-ly shit. It’s you! You’re Al! And you’re fucking here! Angie’s gonna flip!”

“Isn’t that his job?”

She laughs. “Handsome _and_ full of jokes! I like you already.”

Alastor fights down creeping discomfort as she latches onto his arm, but doesn’t quite manage to avoid flinching. She cackles again.

“I don’t bite, baby. Not lately, at least.”

“I know the feeling,” he agrees as they enter the doors, and the room swallows them both.

* * *

It is unbearably cacophonous.

The plethora of noises rankle his sensitive ears, the most vexatious of them all being the hip hop tripe blaring from the speakers. He follows the sound, desperate to pinpoint the bane of the accursed music, and his eyes land on a booth nestled to the back of one of the stages. The person behind it, snapping his fingers to the rhythm, is wearing, apropos of nothing, a gas mask. A murderous coil unfurls in his chest.

Perhaps he should give him reason to need it.

Cherri yanks him out of his homicidal headspace. She slides into a booth occupied by a single man.

“Hiya, Panty,” she purrs. “What’s good?”

“Oh for Pete’s… _Pentious_! How many times do I have to repeat it?”

“Only teasing, baby. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”

“You’re infuriating. I don’t even know why I still come here.”

“You know you’d miss me.”

He jerks his head towards Alastor. “And who is this?” he demands, sounding put out. “Another _friend_?”

“Alastor,” he smoothly introduces. “Now, I don’t believe we’ve met, so feel free to take this with a grain of salt, but I most assuredly am not here for Cherri. No offense, my dear.”

“You’re fine. And I know you’re super jay, Penny baby, but Al’s here for Angel Dust.”

Pentious starts. “What? _Him_?” He furrows his brow, scrutinizing Alastor from head to toe. “Are you taking the piss?”

Alastor laughs, booming damn near over the loud bass. “No, I don’t think so!”

“Okay, babe,” Cherri interrupts, pointing past Alastor. “Move. Angie’s not answering my texts. I’m about to let him know you’re here.”

She turns to address Pentious. “Wait here with Al, Daddy. I’ll meet you after my set.”

Alastor stands and does as she requests. He rolls his eyes as she shimmies out dramatically, emphasizing her ample bottom and leaving nothing to the imagination. Her skirt rucks up and Pentious gapes. After Alastor’s snort of derision, he scowls and looks away. Alastor eyes the seat next to the man, torn between poking around (to possibly gain more information on Lucifer’s dealings) and staying put (for Angel’s benefit). He ponders long enough for Pentious to snap.

“Sit down,” he says, exasperated. “Please,” he tacks on, wisely deducing the sort of man Alastor is.

“He’s a decent sort, even if a tad obnoxious.” He doesn’t bother to elucidate; Alastor knows who he’s speaking about.

“Understatement of the century,” Alastor responds, carefully nonchalant. He’s intrigued.

He sits back down. Pentious eyes him warily, then concedes.

“Yes. Well,” he flaps a limp wrist, “I may be outing myself here, but I’ve been patronizing this place for a while since my whole divorce debacle. I’m rather familiar with the dancers.”

He balks at Alastor’s expression. “Not like that! Pervert!”

Pentious collects himself then sighs, running a finger down the condensation on his drink.

“On the whole, they’re mostly decent, if a touch rough around the edges. Angel has an enormous heart. It may be crooked, misshapen, probably faces the wrong damned way, but it’s there. The boy’s been put through the wringer countless times.”

He tilts his head, throwing back the contents. “We can only hope he won’t experience more of the same.”

Alastor says nothing.

He doesn’t plan to, not to this stranger at least, spill his guts on the sticky floor of a strip club. It’s gauche and unnecessary. The sentiment does linger, though, even after the man in the booth announces the next dancer.

“And now for our next six song set, starring one of my favorite dancers, the effervescent little pink twink, Angel Dust!”

An arrow of anticipation spears Alastor as Angel takes the stage. His voracious appetite stirs at the sight.

Angel looks _resplendent_.

He’s clad in a tiny skirt and white knee high stockings. A garter wraps around one of his thighs. The top barely covers his chest and exposes his midriff. He’s gussied up like a present on Christmas morning, and Alastor itches to unwrap him. It’s Pentious’s turn to snort now, but he wisely refrains.

After spraying and cleaning the pole, Angel gives an experimental swing of his hips and spins. His skirt twirls with the movement, and a smattering of jeers and catcalls ring out from the crowd. Alastor’s teeth clench at the flash of red. Seemingly satisfied, Angel then scans out into the audience as the song starts.

There’s a split moment when he spots Alastor, eyes widening and smile blossoming, that feels like it stretches on forever, as if they are the only two beings in existence. The moment snaps, then breaks as exhilaration comes alive on Angel’s face.

Alastor already knew Angel was objectively beautiful. He just didn’t expect how ethereally angelic he was until now.

The tart winks and his traitorous cock responds.

Alastor clenches his fists, willing his erection down as Angel begins his set. For the first three songs, he teases the audience, executing a series of acrobatic spins, pirouettes, and on one memorable occasion: a set of spins, upside down, before flipping over into the splits. He hasn’t entertained anyone at the tip rail yet, so patrons settle for raining bills down on the stage. Angel’s in his element, a natural performer, and like recognizes like. Alastor admits he’s more than a little impressed.

He would have liked to remain there, hidden in the corner, were it not for the irritating man that sidles up to the table, attempting in vain to make small talk. Alastor’s on his last nerve as the man canvasses his body with lewd eyes, landing on his groin area with a lascivious smirk. His hands twitch. The disc jockey suddenly bellows through the third song, announcing the next dancer.

“Next up, the scintillating sinner, self-proclaimed ‘bad bitch extraordinaire’: Ch-ch-ch-Cherri Bomb! She’ll flash her cherry, all right, but a friendly reminder folks: she won’t give up the goods for free! Let’s show her, and all our lovely ladies here, some love, all right? All right!”

Angel picks up his top from the floor after raking up the money on the stage and stuffing it into his purse. He grabs his mat and leaps off the stage, swanning to the next one.

The music jarringly switches genre, and the etchings of a sly smile begins on Alastor’s face. How very entertaining, he thinks, recognizing the opening notes and drumbeats.

Angel, this time, crooks a finger at him: beckoning, pleading. He moves unthinkingly, shoving past the insufferable man, and slides onto a chair at the tip rail. Angel smiles beatifically. Alastor returns it, his barbed with both malice and promise.

_I got the ways and means_

_To New Orleans_

_I’m going down by the river where it’s warm and green_

Angel lavishes his attention on Alastor to the dismay of the other customers. Balanced on his hands and knees, Angel spreads his legs wider before bouncing his ass up and down. It’s a poor facsimile of the filthy act they first performed, the fever bright catalyst to all this madness. Alastor can’t complain; as it stands, he’s enjoying the ride.

As well as the view.

_I’m going to have a drink_

_And walk around_

_I’ve got a lot to think about, oh yeah_

Angel peacocks, interspersing pole tricks with body undulations for the reminder of the song. He saunters to a handful of other customers, snapping his garter in place after they run dollars up his thighs. The DJ effortlessly seams the first song into the next, and Angel bites his lip, peering down at Alastor expectedly.

Ah, right, he thinks. He pulls out several dollars from his wallet. He flicks them down at Angel’s heels.

Angel chooses, at that moment, to sink down to his knees. Alastor swallows, mouth gone parched. Angel’s dark blond fringe is plastered to his forehead, and his pink lipstick is smudged at the corner. Alastor wants nothing more than to press his thumb against the middle of his lower lip and _push_ outwards, so that it smears even further. He tries to quash the naked greed wracking his body to no real avail.

He pulls out another bill, sliding it towards him. Angel lazily smirks before snatching it up. Alastor furrows his brow as he folds it lengthwise, then creases it to form an upside down “v”. He leans in, roses and vanilla, and perches it over the shell of Alastor’s ear, above the temple of his frame. Jeers erupt around them as Angel nuzzles the side of his face with his, darting out a tongue, then _tasting._ He trails his tongue up, then languorously down before nibbling his lobe. He whispers, and Alastor violently reacts. Angel bites the apex of the dollar between his teeth and pulls away.

Alastor is furiously, blindingly hard.

The last song starts. Alastor has trouble hearing it over the dull roaring in his ears. He’s transfixed. Angel is once again upright, leaning against the pole. He slides his thumbs under the sides of his panties below the skirt. He’s challenging Alastor, openly defiant. The beast inside Alastor rages, and vows to defile him, to degrade him once he submits under his claws. Alastor is struck with the noxious desire to pound the disobedience from him.

Angel slides them down, and they pool around his stockinged ankles. Patrons holler and whistle.

He’s flushed. The pink compliments the smattering of freckles atop his skin. His semi-erect cock juts out from the skirt’s hemline. Alastor notices Angel’s knees knocking slightly, and the sight shoots blindingly hot arousal downwards and out. Judging by the sharp intakes of breath near him, he isn’t the only one arrested by the image.

Angel gingerly steps out of them and onto his knees. The mat cushions the brunt of the impact, but Alastor’s mind runs haywire with images of bruises to compliment the ones he intends to inflict. Angel arches backwards, balancing himself on one arm. With his free hand, he loosely fists the base of his cock. His heterochromatic eyes are clouded with lust, desire, and something else Alastor can’t quite place.

He spreads his legs wider, twists his hand, and shoots his hips skyward.

Alastor drives his nails into his palms to remind him of the setting, so that he can maintain basic decorum.

Someone groans near him and Alastor, filled to the brim with violent lust, tries to quell the mad rush of jealousy. The hunger to possess nearly incapacitates him; it’s more than intimacy, it’s physiological.

Angel flips over, treating Alastor to the obscene view of the silicon plug nestled between his cheeks. He drops to his elbows, driving his hips back. The skirt rucks up.

Angel is utterly, wholly on display.

The song ends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song notes:
> 
> Title is based off the song “Animal Impulses” by IAMX. The song that Angel dances to in his fourth set and the chapter title is “Bloodletting (The Vampire Song)” by Concrete Blonde. I had an idea what his last two songs were, but feel free to imagine whatever you like. I do, explicitly, blame the song, “I Wanna Love You” by The Maine for the bits of fluff that snuck into this PWP.
> 
> 1\. Boto: Penis (In Ilocano! Who knew? Not me)
> 
> 2\. Chapter 2 is already written, and should be posted in the next day or so. My anal retentiveness forces me to edit through a sieve until I go insane.
> 
> 3\. "Scintillating sinner" is a line from the song "Nowadays" from the musical, Chicago
> 
> 4\. Also: It’s inadvisable to wear stockings when performing pole tricks. Skin friction is necessary to grip.


	2. Smoke Baby

Angel’s stupid, duplicitous heart skips as he slides into the booth. He’s unreasonably giddy, and refuses to ruminate on why.

He strains to hear Alastor over the music, but he manages once he scoots closer. Alastor’s eyes flash in warning, but Angel cheerfully sprints past all the flags. He lets his leg fall open so that they touch, thigh to thigh. Alastor’s trousers radiate warmth against his barely covered skin.

Angel’s changed his stockings to thigh highs. He fervently hopes Alastor appreciates the difference.

“What’d ya say, babe? I can hear ya better now that you’re near,” Angel purrs into his ear. He misses neither the shiver nor the shallow hiss.

“That infernal man in the corner kept trying to engage me in banal conversation.”

Angel peers out into the crowd. “Who, Stolas?” He laughs. “Al, he’s one of the best regulars we got. He buys dances from fuckin’ everyone. Shows up on weeknights, too.”

Alastor’s decidedly unamused.

“I fail to understand what that has to do with me,” he says, smile more like a grimace.

“Er, babes, dunno how to say this, but he’s a huge bottom, and most of us gays here are, ‘cept for like, two guys.”

“The point being?” he grits out as Stolas chooses that exact moment to blow him a kiss.

Torn between hilarity and jealousy, Angel tries his hardest to keep a neutral veneer. One look at Alastor’s murderous expression however, reflects his success on that front. He holds up his hands, attempting to placate.

“Honestly, Al? Ya kind of ooze… _energy_. I mean, there’s something fuckin’ dangerous about you. It’s pretty fuckin’ sexy.”

It worked on me, he doesn’t say.

“Do you think anyone would mourn were he to disappear?”

Angel starts.

“What. Al, guy’s a wife and kid. He’s also part owner of the biggest chain of bars in the fuckin’ city. Ya jokin’, right? Tell me ya jokin’.” He laughs, but it comes out strained. After an excruciatingly long moment in Angel’s opinion, Alastor faces him with a wide smile.

“Of course, dear. Just some tongue-in-cheek.” Alastor’s teeth flash under the strobe lights. His canines glow, impossibly pointed.

Angel needs them on his skin.

“Don’t fret, darling.” He leans closer to Angel, voice dropping an octave. “You know how I _covet_ my jokes.” Then:

“You were shameless tonight.”

Fuck.

Alastor’s being a right bastard, and that just does it for him. Angel’s silk panties feel insanely restrictive. He was convinced that they couldn’t ride up any more, but of course, everything turns ass over tea kettle when it comes to Alastor. Angel tries to be upset, but fails on all counts.

Alastor grins as if sensing surrender.

“As it is dear, I’d like to discuss your rather enticing display. Alone.”

His fingers dance over Angel’s thigh, gripping it tight. He slides his hand up and into the junction between his thigh and groin, dangerously close to his erection. Angel jerks, a frisson of molten pleasure jolting his body. A nasty part of him hopes Stolas can see.

He locates his voice, a touch strangled.

“Ya wanna private show, Al?” He clears his throat then finds his footing.

Angel shuts his legs closed, trapping Alastor’s fingers between his thighs. He rubs them together, long fingers caught along silky friction.

Angel grins as they twitch into his thighs.

“Twenty for a song, but if ya get three, it’s only fifty. Eighty gets ya five. Or, you could pony up three hundred for the Champagne Room.”

Alastor’s all teeth. He dips his thumb under the top of the stocking, circling Angel’s bare skin. Angel stifles a moan around his next sentence. It comes out breathily.

“What’s it gonna be, hot stuff?”

* * *

He thumbs the nipple, circling the pink nub under his rotating finger. He flicks once, drawing out a velvety moan from his toy. Angel moans, hands held behind his back at the wrists. Alastor hums, parting his lips, and leans forward to latch on. He swirls his tongue over and around, teasing the nub between his lips and eager, inviting teeth. Angel arches as far as he can, unwilling and unable to escape the onslaught. Alastor takes pity on him and sucks, anchoring him in place as he writhes against his mouth.

He’s been playing with Angel’s chest since they started. He doesn’t need to look to see them rose-swollen and bitten.

“Al,” he whines, grinding down. “Al, please kiss me.”

He releases him with a soft hum, marvelling at how the nub glistens under the dim lights. Wet and covered by him.

It’s a fine thought: Angel, subdued somehow, writhing under him, slathered and filled to the brim. He wants to consume him. No.

He _needs_ to.

He releases Angel’s wrists.

“Oh darling,” he sing songs. “How can I deny you when you beg so prettily?”

And just like that, he pulls Angel down by his nape.

Their foreheads rest against each other for a heartbeat. Angel’s breathing picks up, and Alastor knows that when he moves his hand to cup his cheek, it’ll burn up under his palm. He’s right, of course, and leans up to slot their lips together, catching him in a sigh. It starts off sweet with tiny pursuing pecks: Alastor retreating, then gently returning.

As Angel parts his lips in supplication, Alastor probes into his mouth, lightly at first, dragging his tongue over the swell in his lower lip. He flicks at the tiny indentation in the middle of the plush flesh, sensitive from a past split. He caresses Angel’s tongue, sucking the tip before pulling back to give him another closed kiss.

Alastor could do this forever, taking him apart with his mouth. One moment, he’ll be vicious and demanding, and the next, soft and sweetly apologetic. Angel seems to enjoy the variation; Alastor suspects he likes to be overwhelmed.

Every part of Angel tastes addicting. He could spend all night holding Angel’s hips up with his arms, punching his tongue inside of him. He’d be satisfied with just his mouth, as long as he was able to mark up his throat.

“Darling,” Alastor breathes while Angel trembles around him. “You’re _exceptional_.”

Angel preens under the warm praise. Alastor’s hands wander lower, to the soft ruffles barely covering his bottom.

The skirt’s a lovely touch, he muses. The stockings, even lovelier.

He splays his hands over Angel’s ass, cupping and kneading the soft flesh. His fingers reach the base of the plug, and he gives it a twist.

Angel bites his lip, shuddering. Alastor toys idly with it, revelling in the breathy moan he coaxes out from Angel when he slides it out halfway before shoving it back in. He rocks it slowly back out of Angel, who sighs at the loss. He sets the plug down on a bed of tissues.

“Touch yourself.”

Alastor’s hand swallows his as he guides it to Angel’s cock, jutting out from under the hemline, precum pearling in the slit. Angel takes himself in hand as Alastor pulls away. He begins thrusting into his fist as Alastor sits back and enjoys the show.

“You _adore_ this, don’t you, my dear? Being an incorrigible hussy?” Angel’s hand slides faster to the rhythm in his mocking lilt.

“Does it get you excited, pet, when you display yourself in front of all those men?”

Angel keens, flushing. He reaches around to shallowly fuck his fingers inside his hole. He winces, then pulls out. He darts out a hand and grabs the packet of lubricant Alastor had set down on the booth earlier. Angel glares at him as he tears with his teeth, and clumsily smears his fingers. His breath hitches as he returns to his hole and thrusts sloppily back inside.

Alastor doesn’t lift a finger. He paid for the show, after all.

Angel finds his voice.

“Go. Fuck. Yourself.”

Alastor smiles, tongue trailing over a canine.

_There’s_ that spark, lashing out from his bratty little thing. It wouldn’t be as entertaining if he broke him too early on, now would it?

His nails sink deeper into Angel’s fleshy thighs as punishment. His partner whimpers, high pitched and pining.

“Shameless,” Alastor hisses, shoving his erection against Angel’s plush thighs. “Exhibitionist.”

And:

“What does it make you, dear heart, when you let me wreck you the first time it was even a possibility?”

Angel’s strokes lose finesse under the verbal onslaught. His wrist speeds up, sloppy. Alastor’s amused at how little control he has.

“What do you want, Anthony? Tell me.”

Angel whimpers. “I want. Fuck Al, I want you to fuck me in front of _everyone_ , I want you to own me, show them I’m yours, baby _please_ , I want you inside and everywhere, I want…I _need_ you-”

As if Alastor doesn’t want that too.

Alastor leans forward, hand splaying in the small of his back, and presses a soft kiss to his sternum.

“Mine,” he murmurs on Angel’s skin. “Mine.”

There’s a soft wet sound as Angel suddenly yanks his fingers from his hole.

His hand flies to his skirt, tugging it over his cock. He cups his palm over his covered cockhead as he milks his cock into the soft fabric. He tenses, thighs a vice around Alastor’s hips, and he’s coming, spurting into his skirt.

“Ha,” he gasps out, eyes fluttering open. His hips jerk forward as he sullies his pretty outfit.

Alastor’s arrested by the filthy sight.

He squeezes his erection through his trousers. There’s a dark wetness spreading where Angel had released into the fabric. He grips near the base of his cock, holding tight.

He almost loses control. It hangs on by the thinnest thread.

He runs his fingers down Angel’s cock, scooping up spend. He brings it to Angel’s lips.

“Open,” he commands, fingertips prodding. Angel parts his mouth obediently, tongue snaking out, and allows Alastor to thrust inside. He drags his fingers down the length of Angel’s tongue, feeding him his own come. Angel moans prettily, sliding his tongue between the digits, cleaning his fingers. Angel bobs his head, sucking them further into his mouth so that they hit the back of his throat.

He swallows.

Humiliation shines in his eyes, and Alastor’s cock pulses at the sight.

“Perfect, pet.”

He withdraws his fingers, skimming them once over Angel’s bottom lip before pulling reluctantly away.

“Turn around and spread, my dear. I’d like to see you.”

Angel moans, absolutely wrecked, and complies. His legs shake as he extracts himself from Alastor’s lap. He bends over, bracing against the wall for support. Manicured fingers pull apart his cheeks, exposing his pink hole.

“Asshole,” he hears Angel choke out.

Alastor chuckles darkly. “That’s rather the idea, dear.”

He drinks his fill: creamy expanse of pale, freckled skin, opaque stockings decorated with a single bow on both sides, skirt rucked up to his lower back, back dimples on display.

He’s impossibly pink inside, oozing clear slick.

“Oh darling, you are exquisite,” he breathes.

He’s a dream; he’s singular.

He’s _Alastor’s_.

He reaches for a packet of lubricant and tears it open. With deft fingers, he unbuckles his belt and tugs down the zipper. He pulls out his cock, hissing at the friction, before drizzling the lube and taking himself in hand. He spares a glance at the tissue box bolted to the wall and dismisses the thought.

No, he decides. He’ll be marking him tonight.

Alastor starts to stroke. White hot fire licks up in his belly at the wanton display before him.

Angel’s shaking like a leaf. His knees knock together like a new-born fawn. His long legs look delectable in those ivory stockings, awakening something in Alastor he wasn’t previously aware of. He’s struck with a sudden desire to drag his dick between those thighs, and to feel the glide of the fabric on his cock as he fucks in, before soiling the delicate things with his seed.

He forces down the intriguing idea, filing it away for later. He has set plans for tonight, and he’s not about to derail it over a pair of legs, alluring as they may be.

A moan slips from his lips. The heat pooling in his abdomen begins to climb. He reclines, adjusting the angle of the booth.

“Anthony. Come here and sit down.”

Angel lets out a breathy moan and obeys. He’s clumsy as he repositions himself, hole poised above Alastor’s leaking cock. He’s trembling as he reaches around to line Alastor up with his rim. It slips once, sliding between his cheeks, but on the second try, Alastor’s cockhead breaches his hole. Angel mewls as he shimmies his hips down to the hilt.

It’s unbearably hot and tight. A groan escapes Alastor’s mouth as Angel’s hole chokes and flutters around him.

After he fully seats himself, Alastor openly marvels.

Angel’s _wrecked_.

His soiled skirt is bunched around his thighs, cock peeking out and drooling against Alastor’s abdomen. The stockings add a touch of innocence to this perverse picture. Angel himself looks thoroughly debauched. His chest heaves. He’s flushed and freckled everywhere with the exception of his lovely, mottled throat.

Alastor dances his fingers where they’re connected and Angel grinds down instinctively. His mouth is smudged with the last vestiges of lipstick.

He’s pink all over and it’s painstakingly still not _enough_.

It’ll never be enough for him, Alastor thinks as he brings their bodies even closer together, breath catching in his throat. Alastor wants to own him.

“Look at you, pet. Look at how well you take me.”

Angel sobs, guttural.

“I’m going to mark you indelibly,” he purrs. “You’re going to stumble back on stage dripping. And when we get home, I’m going to prop you up on all fours while I fill you up like the greedy little slut you are.”

He grabs Angel’s chin, directing his gaze back where it belongs. Shame and hunger war in his eyes as Angel’s body betrays him.

All he sees is the storm.

The urge to claim is paramount.

“Do I make myself clear?”

Angel nods once, struck silent.

“Good.” Then: “Begin.”

He does. Angel rocks his hips up and down, hole gripping tightly around Alastor’s cock. He gazes at Alastor half-lidded and drunk with lust.

“God, Al,” he whines. “I want ya to always fill me. Please. Don’t wanna be empty ever again.”

Alastor’s suddenly inundated with a flood of images: Angel blindfolded and kneeling. Himself pounding into Angel, come spilling down his thighs. Tonguing his slit with fingers knuckle deep. Those pale legs thrown over his shoulders, shaking as he’s stuffed full.

He vows to mark him so it’s undeniable as to who he belongs to.

Who exactly holds the end of the leash.

“You won’t, dear, I’ll never let you. Ever again,” he promises, biting his lip and tasting blood.

Angel looks down at him, eyes shining with hope, and he’s lost. Alastor stutters up, the flash of longing unexpected, lashing and flailing open the nerves under his skin.

He cants upward, chasing that tight heat.

He’s on the verge of explosion.

He sinks his nails into Angel’s hips, abruptly mindless with lust. He punches out moans from Angel with every upwards thrust until he’s peaking. He arches up, hips flush against Angel’s plush ass. A wave of veritable pleasure crashes over him, sinking claws into his lower abdomen. He pulses, trapped inside that fever heat. Alastor holds Angel in place as he comes, cock fattening as he spills deep inside him, marking him.

Alastor grabs his shoulder and yanks him down, hard.

His vision blurs. Mine, he thinks savagely, fangs poised above Angel’s neck. Mine, he reiterates, sinking his teeth down.

_Mine._

* * *

He laves his tongue soothingly over the marks.

Angel wraps his arms around his head as Alastor mouths his collarbone. He dips his thumbs in Angel’s back dimples, peppering kisses down his chest.

“No,” he says after he’s finished. Angel whines.

“C’mon, Al. I need to put it inside or I’ll leak out. Cherri’d kill me. She’s on after me.”

Alastor smiles cruelly. He twirls the silicon plug in his fingers.

After pulling out, he thumbed at Angel’s puffy rim, imagining Angel on stage, come seeping out. He filed that image away for later.

Maintaining eye contact, Alastor reaches for the tissues. Angel stares in bald betrayal as he wraps the plug in them and tucks it into his trouser pocket.

“That’s the _point_ , darling. Weren’t you paying attention?”

“Al. Fuck, I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” His voice takes on a dangerous edge.

“You will. I want everyone to know who you belong to.”

Angel opens his mouth, but Alastor interferes. He lifts a hand to his face, cupping his cheek. Angel leans into the touch as Alastor traces his lower lip with his thumb.

“Exercise obedience, dear, and when we get home, I promise to ply you open until you submit.” He smiles serenely as Angel melts into his palm.

“You have my word.”

Alastor leans forward and brings him down, bumping their foreheads together. He closes his eyes.

They sit there, unmolested by outside nuisance, battling down their breathing into something more palpable. The whole world spins on its axis except in this liminal space where they float, suspended in time.

They stay that way for an ephemeral moment.

* * *

“Jesus H, kid. What the fuck happened to you?"

Angel glares from his position, legs crossed atop the table. He’s counting out bills, organizing by president. At least, he was.

“Goddamnit! I just lost count,” Angel groans, then asks, “The hell d’ya mean?”

Vox rolls his eyes. “Your neck, dumbass. It looks like a fuckin’ vampire had you for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.” He gives Angel the once-over.

He immediately flushes. It’s completely slipped his mind. The makeup must have rubbed off.

Or, he thinks sourly, some asshole licked it off.

There’s a couple of new aches in that same general area, and Angel vows to give his roommate hell when he gets here.

“Yeah. About that,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “The guy likes to bite.”

“More like _claim_ , to me. Anyway, you already tip out Tom? He’s making the rounds again. Asshole can sniff out any cheap bitch through that fuckin’ mask, I swear.”

“Yep,” Angel says, thrusting out two fingers, acting as bookends to the bills folded in between.

“Thanks for lookin’ out.” He pauses. “I don’t usually…ya know.”

Vox accepts the cash and pockets it. He shrugs.

“Yeah, no skin off my back. I was the only one watchin’ the cameras tonight anyway. Luci’s off on business.”

“Still. Thanks.”

“Must be someone special,” Vox muses. Angel swallows around the lump in his throat. His stomach swan dives, and he’s not at all ready to accept as to why.

Vox waves his hand dismissively. “Anyway, just lettin’ ya know your ride’s here. Loona texted me soon as she headed out.”

He observes silently as Angel jumps off the table, scooping up his things. Angel feels quiet judgement cloak his back, choosing to ignore it for the time being. As he’s leaving, Vox finally speaks.

“This one’s not going to be bad for business, is he, Angel Cakes?”

Angel calls over his shoulder as he rushes towards the exit.

“Not at all,” he says, with no real conviction.

He bounds out into the crisp, early morning air, practically skipping to the car.

He slides in just as Alastor leans sideways, and they meet in a kiss.

“I would ask how work went, but well.” Alastor trails off. His eyes are bright with amusement. Angel is torn between wanting to slap the smirk from his mouth or kissing it off. Either way, he thinks, he’ll die a happy man.

“You’re such a shit, Al. I’m so gettin’ fired. Look at what ya fuckin’ did!” Angel points to the bruised mess strangling his neck. “My fuckin’ manager saw!”

Alastor raises an eyebrow, and looks.

Angel hates him. He really, really does.

And since he’s on this tangent of lying to himself, he decides to do it out loud.

“Maybe the next guy I give a dance to won’t rip up my neck.” And, to be extra vicious and petulant: “An’ I’ll fuckin’ _love_ it.”

It’s not his first mistake of the night, but judging by the way Alastor’s looking, it’s bound to be his last.

Besides the thunderous expression and a minute clenching of his jaw, Alastor appears otherwise unruffled. He starts up the car, saying nothing. He slings his arm over the passenger’s seat and turns his head to reverse.

As they exit the driveway onto the main road, he finally snarls, “I can’t _wait_ to take you apart, my dear.”

Angel bites his lip and looks away.

He’s smiling.

* * *

Alastor would never dream of reneging on a promise.

That would be absurd.

“Dear, you are salacious,” he says, fingers buried deep within Angel. He leans in and whispers, “I wonder how much of me you kept in?”

Angel’s answering whine is music.

He spends ages, an epoch, thrusting his fingers into Angel’s quivering little heat. He opens him up, scissoring inside. He crooks his fingers at every imaginable angle until he finds one that coaxes longer moans from Angel’s bared throat. He resembles his faux namesake more than ever when he arches his back and cants his hips backwards, insatiable, to shove more of Alastor inside him.

Alastor bites back a moan as Angel slides to his knuckles, wanton and categorically immodest. He catches on when Angel winks at him, sloppy but no less resolute.

And insufferably smug.

“Brat,” he snarls, ramming his fingers to the brink, pummelling brutally into that over-sensitive bundle of nerves. Angel keens, cock stiff and leaking.

He’s simultaneously aroused and furious as Angel continues to goad him. He also, fantastically, feels a rush of affection for this beautiful, capricious beast. His length thickens and grows with every breathy wail coerced from Angel’s throat.

It’s positively cathartic.

“Brat,” he repeats.

Angel cries out suddenly, a long, drawn out whine that sings in Alastor’s ears. His hips stutter and shake. The heat around Alastor’s fingers clench as if trying to milk them.

He viscerally _wants_ , with all his being.

He thirsts to possess Angel; he craves it. Angel, to be helpless under him, dominated by him, brought down to his knees. Alastor’s struck suddenly with covetous longing and it pitches him off axis.

He removes his fingers, Angel’s hole still spasming around them. The poor dear made a right mess of the sheets, but Alastor knows nothing but pride.

Angel crawls towards him, awaiting instruction. Alastor smiles.

“Oh, pet. It’s time for you to repent.” He tilts Angel’s chin up to press a bruising kiss to bitten lips.

“What do you say?”

Angel nods, blissed out and pliant, and moves off the bed.

He sinks to his knees on the floor.

Alastor guides his head as he apologizes.

* * *

The hum of the air conditioner drones on in the background, occasionally tinkling and chirring at fixed intervals. The cool air is a balm, a brief respite after their recent vigorous activity.

Alastor checks his phone, the brightness burning as it lights up the dark. 3:58.

Husk will be home soon, he notes. The bar closes at four, although he usually stays behind to tidy up. Alastor’s not keen on explaining the logistics of this particular situation, so he quickly buttons up his shirt.

The lamp light clicks on, and the bed glows.

“Hey, Al?”

Alastor shifts from the edge of the mattress towards where Angel is, curled up under blankets. “Yes, dear?”

Angel shoots him a sleepy smile from the stack of pillows and faux fur. He reaches out, as if trying to catch him before he spirits away. Alastor places a hand around his wrist, circling fingers around.

“Thanks for comin’ tonight.”

It’s a soft, sincere thing.

3:59.

Alastor releases his hold and stands up.

“Not a problem, darling,” he says before he slips out.

The next morning, Alastor wakes to find an envelope under his door.

_For Al_ , it reads in pink cursive, a looping heart after the last letter. He opens it up.

Inside are neatly folded bills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Chapter title is the name of the song, Smoke Baby by Hawksley Workman.
> 
> 2\. The whole top/bottom labelling bit by Angel is meant as purely a sexual preference thing, not a description of one’s character. There was a line in there where Alastor refuted this, but it was cut for brevity. Strip clubs are also shockingly not very politically correct spaces. 
> 
> 3\. Private shows or Champagne Room? Up to you.
> 
> 4\. Always tip the DJ or he will find you. On the off chance he doesn't and you don't, be prepared to dance to country until it’s remedied.
> 
> Next up: more RadioDust roommate-centric adventures (+ with added Husk), lockdown and otherwise (also porn).


End file.
